Brothers on a Hotel Bed
by Hannibal the Animal
Summary: The culmination of overthinking two characters and a love for the LAXverse. Keamy/Mikhail
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER:**_ One_

**PAIRING:** _Keamhail (Martin Keamy/Mikhail)_

**CHARACTERS:** _Martin Keamy, Mikhail_

**UNIVERSE:** _LAXverse_

**GENRE:** _Character Study,_

**RATING:** _NC17_

**SPOILERS:** _LOST 6.06 and LOST 6.11_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _The culmination of overthinking two characters and a love for the LAXverse._

**DISCLAIMER:** _Obvious this isn't mine._

* * *

Sometimes he wakes in the middle of the night to Keamy leaving the latrine to come back to bed. It's the sound of the tank refilling that wakes Mikhail and he'll turn his head to his right to look at the dark doorway that leads into the bedroom, the lights from the city creeping around the windows' curtains to illuminate the angles of the man that stands there. Mikhail always pretends to be asleep, doesn't want to be caught looking but he knows he gives himself away when he holds his breath as the other man curls close to him, his head resting on his shoulder. Sometimes Keamy's fingers ghost across his belly before he wraps a strong arm around him and in the dark, Mikhail can feel the triumphant smile Keamy wears at—Mikhail doesn't give himself away easily, but this loan shark has always been able to figure him out.

Morning is always the same. He wakes to the dark, to skin against his, whispers that are too insistent, the sound of the day's first buses outside, a bedroom that is too beige and too hot for 5 AM. Being this drowsy means he can't think straight enough to speak English, just mumbles sleepy Russian, usually requests to be left alone as Keamy slides the bed sheets down and pulls Mikhail's hard on out of his boxers. The words of irritation become words of affection as a warm mouth envelopes him and his tone stays the same, muttering them as though he's cursing or threatening which only makes Keamy chuckle around him.

The ambient bliss of hardly being awake makes Keamy's mouth overwhelming and he isn't aware that he's moaning until he finally chokes out "_Martin!_" which seems to sound just right amid the rustle of bed sheets. Keamy moves back up the bed and before Mikhail can protest at how close he'd been, the other man uses a knee to nudge his thighs open.

Keamy isn't someone to be resisted. Mikhail doesn't like the thought of men being with men, but this is far different. There's no flounce or frills, just muscles and calluses as Keamy leans over him, his stubble grating against his neck as he whispers into his ear. His Russian is still dreadful, full of poor pronunciation and an American accent but Mikhail never criticizes him about it, keeping his opinions to himself only because—of all things—he doesn't want to insult the other man.

They are soon a tangle of limbs and the headboard bangs rhythmically against the wall as Mikhail finds his English again, groaning out utter nonsense as his hand grips at the back of Keamy's neck, fingers noting the hairline in need of a trim. The way Keamy brings his lips to Mikhail's is hungry, crushing and the feeling of urgency in both of them finally peaks with the American shouting out a curse word and collapsesing on top of him. Mikhail finishes between their bodies, his face pressed into the smooth span of skin connecting the shoulder to the neck. The weight of the other man's spent body on top of his and the feeling of skin slick from sweat beneath his fingertips are welcome and as they catch their breath, a moment of calm settles in him, the only part of the day that will feel this way.

Mikhail isn't living in Los Angeles so much as he is hiding out. After his unit in the Soviet Army was decommissioned he'd come to California in hopes of escaping his past. The things he'd done in Afghanistan were no doubt considered war crimes and while he doesn't feel sorry for anything he's done, he doesn't want to be around people who _know_ what he's done. Los Angeles, the City of Angels, calls to him with a siren's song of opportunity and he relocates himself to the sun-drenched metropolis, the desert against the coast. He trades fatigues for suits of the same faded, military colours, blending into the dusty heat waves that rise off the pavement and tall concrete buildings. He makes himself invisible, forgettable, a ghost, and this new freedom suits him well.

However, while it is a new town, a new closet of clothing, a new beginning, some things will never change. He's in the same old business of torture and killing and it's not so much that he enjoys what he does, he's simply very good at it and it's pointless to pretend otherwise. Hired muscle is surprisingly a highly sought after market and he does well working with Brazilian gangsters, his Portuguese improving the more he works with them. He gains a reputation as someone not to be fucked with and at the turn of the millennium, his name gets around to a racketeer named Martin Keamy. Keamy calls upon him from time to time to act as a translator and on one instance as an evaluator of Soviet firearms before he's accepted as a regular part of the fold, welcome to act as a liaison between Keamy's syndicate and other organizations with similar interests.

As he dresses for the day, Mikhail looks at himself in the mirror. He doesn't recognise himself sometimes. He is Mikhail and yet he is not. Is this truly the world he belongs in?

"Swing by the restaurant for lunch," Keamy says as straightens his suit in the mirror.

Mikhail doesn't answer and soon he's left in the apartment alone, the sun starting to rise.

* * *

Keamy stopped thinking of himself as Martin ages ago. Martin was his childhood name, Keamy is what he is called as a man. While he's often referred to as a "loan shark", he likes to think of himself as a "non-federal financial supplier" with the side occupation of "acquisition and redistribution specialist". He has ties across the globe, people who rely on him for money and guns, for specialty services that he is willing to offer for a heavy—but worthwhile—fee.

There is a man who (in turn for not being chopped to bits and thrown into the Pacific) lets him use the restaurant he owns as the headquarters for Keamy's business which is something he finds fairly delightful as he has access to the food and kitchen space; during the duller parts of the day he cooks, making up for every shit meal he ever ate in the Marines. He also likes to imagine that this makes him a better-rounded person, something to offset the tailored suits and Rolex watches. He likes his expensive lifestyle, likes the power and leadership he has here in LA. Fairly young for his line of work, Keamy finds a sense of pride in the business he's built from the ground up, using it as a way to get him anything he wants.

To his surprise, Mikhail Bakunin is something he wants. Keamy likes women of course, he likes them a _lot_—it's just easier, safer being with the Russian. Mikhail gets who he is, isn't scared or disturbed with what he's done. He's also hilariously homophobic, but Keamy never misses the jealousy when the Russian catches him checking out a woman walking by. But then maybe for Mikhail it isn't about gender, maybe it's about emotions and trust (which is actually gayer than anything he complains about).

Keamy gets it, though.

Though there are many similarities between he and the Russian, Mikhail is in many ways his polar opposite. They share a military background and life of crime, but Keamy's world involves smiling and interacting with people who need what he can provide. Mikhail is withdrawn and rarely speaks, only showing himself when he is needed; Keamy often catches him simply standing back and watching. It irks him somewhat, but then again he can also tell that Mikhail has seen and done things that have made him cautious around others, a permanent state of survival mode.

Keamy finds himself thinking of the Russian more often than he's ever intended to, sometimes during inopportune moments such as taking a pipe to a snitch's kneecaps, ignoring screams to think about the first time he'd been alone with Mikhail.

It had been late at night in the poorly lit restaurant kitchen that at the time had been closed for renovations. Keamy'd brought some KFC for them to eat, a bucket of chicken with sides of mashed potatoes and coleslaw. It'd been a long day for both of them and the greasy poultry was a welcome meal. They sit at the preparation island, using the plastic sporks to shovel food straight from the Styrofoam containers into their mouths. The only sound is their chewing and when Keamy looks over at him from time to time, Mikhail offers a nod as if to say that the chicken was a brilliant idea.

"You have some gravy," Keamy says fifteen minutes in, gesturing to his own face to indicate the general vicinity of the food.

Mikhail's eyes lock onto his as he brings one of the cheap thin paper napkins up to his cheek, wiping off the offending food then raising his eyebrows as if to ask whether or not everything is all right once more. Keamy nods, peeling crispy skin off a drumstick to eat separately. After a moment and without much thought, he's leaned over and placed his lips on the Russian's who appears to be too stunned to do anything in response. Keamy doesn't have a real reason for kissing the other man, he just feels like it.

Mikhail had been angry about it of course and had attempted to kill him until Keamy caught him in a chokehold and made him promise to chill out. Once he was released, Mikhail had stormed out of the restaurant without a word, leaving Keamy to finish his dinner alone.

He doesn't see him for a week after that; honestly Keamy doesn't give a fuck either way if Mikhail likes him or not. He tries not to make loyalties to anyone, just the one or two people in his life he's actually cared about. When they do meet up again, Mikhail pins him up against a wall and punches him hard in the stomach, screaming at him about fairy boys , have of the words in Russian, the other half in broken English. Keamy lets him yell, knowing that the Russian wouldn't act like this if he wasn't completely freaked out—Mikhail is a man very in control of his emotions and this kind of reaction gives him away completely. Besides, if he truly didn't want it, he could have just as easily killed Keamy.

After, the relationship between them is completely different and yet entirely the same. Mikhail makes obvious attempts to make up for the vulnerability he felt from the kiss, yelling at and insulting Keamy on a regular basis, though Keamy hasn't missed the lingering stares he gets when the Russian thinks he's not paying attention. At a certain point it reached fifty percent pure hatred and fifty percent "something else" and Keamy knows it's only a matter of time before the Russian makes a move. This is the calm before the storm and when it finally happens, Keamy is caught off guard which he suspects was the other man's intention. It's late at night and he's headed home from the restaurant when the Russian pins him against his car door, whispering threats at Keamy that actually freak him out. Mikhail's shorter than him, something Keamy wasn't consciously aware of until they're facing one another and would have dwelled on had the Russian not taken his silence as an opportunity to crush his lips to Keamy's. Keamy makes a noise of surprise as his eyes widen and Mikhail's hands shoot out to pin his wrists to the vehicle, obviously thinking that he'll try to get away.

Mikhail breaks away and once again leaves without another word. Keamy learns the next morning from Omar that the Russian had left town to kill someone which leaves him feeling anxious, unsure what it all meant. Keamy bides his time, never letting on that he gives a shit about the Russian man and before he realises it, Mikhail's standing at his front door at one in the morning on a Thursday. No words are exchanged because they both know why he's here. Keamy lets him inside and locks the door once more.

In the morning Keamy wakes up with aches and sore muscles he'd forgotten he had; the sun is starting to rise and the Russian is standing at the foot of his bed, buckling his belt, his dress shirt rumpled from lying on the floor all night. Keamy reaches over to the nightstand to find his cellphone to see what time it us, but it's missing. He sits up abruptly and before he can say anything, the Russian speaks.

"Your battery died. It's charging." He nods his head in the direction of the kitchen.

Keamy relaxes back against his pillows and headboard. "Thanks."

"You missed a phone call."

"Fuck. Probably Omar." The Russian sits down on the edge of the bed to put his shoes on and Keamy wonders if he's rushing. "Busy schedule?"

"I have things to do this morning," the man says in a dry tone.

Keamy scratches at his chin. "Doing anything for lunch?"

Mikhail smirks at him and Keamy tosses up his hands. "Not a date, you asshole! I have a problem down in Little Tokyo and I could use some help."

The Russian looks at him out of the corner of his eye while adjusting his shirt collar in the mirror. "What about Omar?"

Keamy shrugs. "He's eh, not _welcome_ there any more."

The Russian seems satisfied with his appearance and turns to look at him critically. "I don't speak Japanese."

Keamy smiles. "I'm not going there to talk."

Mikhail is quite a moment longer, studying him as if sussing out any sort of trap that Keamy might be setting up, but he finally gives nod. "I'll drive."

"Meet me down at the restaurant!" Keamy calls out as the Russian leaves the bedroom, leaving his flat.

And like that, they are together, two men who have no one else to turn to but another criminal.


	2. Chapter 2

**TITLE:** _Brothers on a Hotel Bed_

**PAIRING:** _Keamhail (Martin Keamy/Mikhail Bakunin)_

**CHARACTERS:** _Martin Keamy, Mikhail Bakunin_

**UNIVERSE:** _LAXverse_

**GENRE:** _Character Study,_

**RATING:** _NC17_

**SPOILERS:** _LOST 6.06 and LOST 6.11_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _The culmination of overthinking two characters and a love for the LAXverse._

**DISCLAIMER:** _Obvious this isn't mine._

* * *

Mikhail watches a spider cross the ceiling as he lies in his own bed, naked and hot from summer night air; his mind is occupied with thoughts of that idiot back at the restaurant. He grimaces at the phantom pressure of lips on his—it doesn't seem to matter that he's rinsed his mouth out five times since arriving back to his flat, he can still feel the kiss there. The thin skin of his lips tingles and he feels his skin prickle, flush. He can't remember the last time he'd had a relationship that wasn't more than a girl being brought back to his bed for the night. He isn't the type to be emotionally intimate with someone—that's the quickest way to finding trouble and if he wants to stay alive then he has no room for personal relationships.

He's sure this will pass—it has to pass!—and then he'll simply stay away from the American, never think about the fact that they've kissed twice and he didn't do anything to stop him. He chastises himself for seeking Keamy out the evening he'd left town, waiting in the back parking lot behind the restaurant for him to come out. He'd pinned the American against his car door, hissing promises of violence, voicing his hatred towards him. He wasn't able to keep the emotions centred on anger alone, though; the overwhelming urge to feel the American's lips against his again could no longer be ignored and he finally gave in. Keamy had made a noise of surprise as his eyes widened and Mikhail's hands shot out to pin his wrists to the vehicle, assuming the other man was trying to get away. The kiss deepened and Mikhail had realised that he needs to leave before he indulges in the sudden desire to shove his hand down the front of the other man's trousers. He pulls back and breaks eye contact as he walks away, leaving the man in silence.

Business done, he returns to Los Angeles two days after, a Saturday, and now he's lying in bed, still thinking of the man. So he decides to do something about it—he takes a cab across town to the expensive highrise that the Keamy lives in, a bottle of wine in his left hand. He sneaks past the doorman and the girl at the front desk, taking the elevator from the second floor to the seventh, knocking on door 748. The American, still dressed in his suit, smirks upon seeing the alcohol and wordlessly invites him in.

Keamy is just as unrefined as Mikhail expects. From the kitchen cupboard he removes two delicate, _expensive_ glasses and sets them on the counter, turning his attention to digging through counter drawers for a corkscrew.

"These are white wine glasses," Mikhail points out.

The other man pauses in his search, looking back at him. "What?"

"These are for white wine. I brought red," Mikhail explains.

Keamy studies the paper-thin glass bowl attached to the stem and shrugs. "I like the shape of these."

The American can't find the corkscrew and lazily uses a butterknife to pop cork down into the bottle then pours the wine. Mikhail says nothing more on the matter and they head to the living room with their wine; they sit on the couch in silence and in the dark Mikhail tries not to ask himself if this is a mistake—if it was, he wouldn't be here, now would he?

Mikhail feels his heart stop when Keamy's hand rests on his leg, but he relaxes once more when it doesn't progress. His eyes scan the flat, studying the layout the best he can with the minimal lighting; shelves with antique sculptures and vases, probably from clients and former clients, kept simply to impress people… expensive, huge flat screen on the north wall, the dvr on the coffee table below it blinking a tiny red light…this single couch, the low glass table in front of it with a few scattered magazines and box of tissues…a small, personal gym system by the French doors that open out to a balcony. No real personal effects, nothing that gives away who the man is that lives here. His own flat is the same way.

Their fifth glass in and the alcohol has taken enough effect that it's led to tentative kissing with the taller man, still wondering if it would be better to back out of this situation and leave Los Angeles all together but when Keamy's hand finds it's way to the back of his head, pulling him in closer as they kiss, he decides not to worry about the logic of any of this and he isn't disappointed.

Mikhail awakes the next morning to an empty bed. It takes him a moment to orient himself, that he's not in his own room, but in Keamy's. He takes a quick shower and with nothing but his boxers on, wanders into the kitchen where to his surprise Keamy stands at the stove, dressed for the day as he cooks.

"I expected you would have already left," Keamy says with a casual smile and Mikhail sits down heavily at the kitchen's marble top island, bracing his arms against the countertop, massaging his temples. "Eggs?"

Mikhail nods.

Keamy's smile expands. "Hung over?"

Mikhail nods again, slouching a little more.

Keamy presents him a plate and with surprising politeness, a cloth napkin wrapped around a fork and knife. "Here."

"What is this?" Mikhail's brow furrows as he looks down at the runny, yellow and white marbled mess.

"Eggs," the other man insists.

"This looks terrible," he says critically and takes a small bite. "And it tastes awful."

Keamy looks shocked. "Hey!"

Mikhail pushes the plate away. "You could be a decent cook if you had some discipline."

The other man tosses his hands up, looking irritated. "Fine, show me the proper way to cook eggs."

Head still slightly throbbing, Mikhail stands up from the island and goes over to the stove, pulling two eggs out of the carton. "How do you want them?"

"Sunny side up," the American challenges, taking his seat.

Mikhail greases the pan with a slice of butter, cracks the two eggs into the fat, and then covers it with a lid. He feels strangely calm, nearly naked and slightly hungover, cooking for a crimelord who will probably spend the day making people disappear. He realises this is not normal thinking, but before he can ponder the matter further, the eggs are perfectly cooked, the top of the whites steamed to perfection. He slides the eggs onto a plate and sets it on the counter before Keamy.

"There."

The other man looks very impressed. "These look great."

Mikhail takes a slice of toast, cut diagonally, and uses one of the corners to break the yolk. Rich yellow spills across the plate.

"I can never cook them right," Keamy muses as the two begin to eat.

This hardly surprises him. "So you just scramble a mess?"

The other man shrugs, mouth full of toast. "I've always wanted to learn how to cook."

"Make time."

Keamy nods. "I will."

* * *

Sometimes Mikhail dreams strange things and shares them with Keamy in the morning as he bench presses. The other man acts as his spotter, his fingers feather light in cradling the metal, ready to catch it just in case. (The American always insists that Mikhail should join his gym, but he refuses—a place with so many people would leave him feeling vulnerable and besides, the exercise equipment in the Keamy's living room works perfectly fine.) Mikhail is breathing hard, his muscle straining and face red as he starts to talk, lifting the heavy weight away from him.

"Last night I was swimming in the ocean next to a freighter. I had on a snorkeling mask and I was carrying a grenade," he grunts out.

Keamy smirks, his face upside. "What the hell were you snorkeling with a grenade for?"

"You aren't letting me finish!" Mikhail says with a rare laugh that sounds more like a wheeze given the situation. "I kept swimming down the side and when I looked into one of the portholes, there was a little blond man inside the ship. I tapped on the glass and when I had his attention, I pulled the pin."

"That's some crazy shit." Keamy's grin makes him feel embarrassed for talking about something so ridiculous. "Did you blow up?"

"Of course." He can picture the sudden golden light as the grenade went off. "Some people believe that if you die in your dreams, you die in the real world."

Keamy shrugs. "I've never died in my dreams, so I can't say either way."

Mikhail doesn't say anything about dreaming regularly of his own death, that he's always surprised when he wakes up…


	3. Chapter 3

**TITLE:** _Brothers on a Hotel Bed_

**PAIRING:** _Keamhail (Martin Keamy/Mikhail Bakunin)_

**CHARACTERS:** _Martin Keamy, Mikhail Bakunin_

**UNIVERSE:** _LAXverse_

**GENRE:** _Character Study,_

**RATING:** _NC17_

**SPOILERS:** _LOST 6.06 and LOST 6.11_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _The culmination of overthinking two characters and a love for the LAXverse._

**DISCLAIMER:** _Obvious this isn't mine._

* * *

Keamy comes back to the flat late one evening with a bag of golf clubs over his shoulder. Mikhail barely spares the man a glance as he works on a crossword puzzle from yesterday's paper; keeping the mind agile is an important part of surviving and he finds the act relaxing after a day of working over people who hold out on money owed.

"Like golf?" Keamy asks cheerfully as Mikhail continues working his crossword puzzle in blue pen.

"No."

Keamy sets the bag on the kitchen floor. "Got 'em off a guy who owed me money. They're a little used, but still pretty nice. Titanium. Maybe Omar'll want them."

Keamy takes a mug out of the dish rack and sets it on the floor, selecting one of the golf clubs.

"Fore!" he shouts as he swings the club violently through the air.

It connects with the mug and it shatters into the living room loudly, Keamy laughing loudly as he walks into the living room to start picking up some of the pieces.

"I liked that mug," Mikhail comments, a microsecond of mourning passing through him.

"The Snoopy one?"

Mikhail taps the cap of the pen against his lips, pondering eleven down. "No, the one with the cat."

"Oh, that was the Snoopy one." Keamy places a few of the larger pieces on the kitchen table where Mikhail sits. "Why do you like the cat one?"

"I had a cat once. Her name was Nadia."

Mikhail expects Keamy to say something snide, but the words never come. The taller man straddles the chair next to him and crosses his arms across the back.

"You never stuck me as a cat person."

Mikhail shakes his head, skipping to the next clue. "I'm not. She was simply a good companion."

They're quiet again, until the other man offers, "Five across is 'Williams'."

Mikhail nods and fills out the small squares with the appropriate letters.

"And seventeen down is 'telltale'." Keamy gets carried away and begins to find answers for lines that Mikhail hasn't even looked at yet. "Thirty across is 'nearsighted'."

Mikhail reads over the clue and corrects. "No, it isn't. It's 'longsighted'."

"Oh really?" Keamy challenges, leaning the chair forward on its back legs.

"_I'm_ longsighted," Mikhail says as proof.

The American looks curious. "Really?"

"Mmmm." Mikhail nods his head, filling out thirty across.

Keamy studies his eyes for a moment. "I didn't know. Don't you need glasses?"

"I lost them a few months ago and I haven't bothered replacing them." Mikhail is quick to reassure the American that he's not anywhere near blind. "But I do fairly well without them."

"I'd never thought about you in glasses before," the other man ponders.

Keamy leans in and they kiss, his eyes closing as their lips connect. These quiet moments alone together don't seem often enough for Mikhail, but he refuses to seek them out, sure it's making him weak in the first place. They part, foreheads touching for a moment and then they continue with their previous activities—Keamy cleaning up the shards of mug in the living room and Mikhail working on his crossword puzzle.

* * *

One night as they lie in bed, nearly asleep, Mikhail mumbles thickly, "Tell me about Las Vegas."

Keamy knows that Mikhail isn't asking about the city, but what it was like to grow up there, so carefully he picks something out that isn't too revealing. It doesn't matter that he trusts the Russian, but he treasures his secrets and doesn't like to part with them to anyone.

His words are casual, but delivered a little slowly which he knows gives away how hesitant he is. "On the really hot days, the lady who lived next door always made us lemonade."

Mikhail seems satisfied by this, grunting and rolling over. Keamy smiles in the dark, suddenly feeling the urge to say more. Who knew talking could really be cathartic? He moves onto his side, looking at the back of the Russian's head, the faint blue light from the alarm clock exaggerating just how silver his hair had become.

"She would put it in a glass pitcher on her back porch," he continues quietly. "There was a gate between our two houses and we'd bring cups over to get some to drink while we played in the backyard."

Of course he leaves out the part that it was his aunt's house and the "we" was he and his two cousins; he'd been nine at the time, sent away from home by his parents…He wonders if Mikhail can see the whole back-story anyway, can read between the lines and see every inch of his past, but the Russian says nothing more on the matter and Keamy figures the small bit of information wasn't of any importance to him or he really just didn't care.

When evenings get unbearably hot in Los Angeles, Keamy often discovers a pitcher of freshly made lemonade waiting on the kitchen counter—real lemons, not that powdered shit. And the Russian of course makes it with hot honey and cools it with ice cubes so that Keamy has to keep mixing the glass to keep from drinking straight lemon juice. It's not lemonade the way it should be made, but he's become accustomed to the earthy flavour and pulp and starts to thinks it's too sweet when he gets it in the drive through. He always swears to teach Mikhail the proper way to make lemonade with sugar, but secretly…no, there's no point in changing something perfectly fine as it is.

* * *

Occasionally Keamy dreams of an island. He's a mercenary and sometimes the Russian is there, though he has an eyepatch over his right eye. He's fighting the island's inhabitants, a handful of wimpy scientists and wild-eyed people living in the jungle. There is a thick black cloud on the island that sounds like a taxi cab's receipt printer and whispers secrets that he can't quite make out no matter how hard he tries. Some nights he spends an eternity on a freighter and other times he runs through the jungle with a rifle in his hand, his men following close behind, awaiting his orders. He isn't sure what any of it means, if his subconscious is trying to tell him something (not that he believes in that shit) because it always feels like some crazy form of déjà vu, like he's trying to remember something that never quite happened.

The dream appears the strongest one evening as he battles the flu. His mind is a jumble of chaotic symbols: the freighter, the smoke, the jungle, the freighter, the smoke, the jungle, the freighter, the smoke, the jungle. It all rushes past him in a blur, over and over until he starts to feel sick, after which he awakes. Gasping, he struggles against bed sheets that stick to his sweat drenched skin, clinging like a funeral shroud. His body shakes, head pounding and joints aching something awful and he turns his head to the side to see Mikhail moving through the bedroom over to his side.

"You were dreaming," the Russian murmurs as he runs a damp wash cloth across his face.

"The smoke was trying to get us," he mumbles, still not quite awake, phantom pangs on his stomach from a knife. "I was trying to blow up the boat."

"Shhh," Mikhail soothes. "It's a fever dream."

"He was stabbing me while the smoke waited…"

"Drink," the Russian orders firmly as he holds a glass of water to Keamy's lips.

He drinks it all, gasping for air when he finishes. He feels completely exhausted and drowsily he begs,

"Don't let him stab me."

The other man nods, his fingers comfortingly stroking Keamy's hand. "No one's here. You were dreaming."

Keamy eyes begin to feel heavy as he sinks back against the bed, shivering. "I killed his daughter…"


	4. Chapter 4

**TITLE:** _Brothers on a Hotel Bed_

**PAIRING:** _Keamhail (Martin Keamy/Mikhail Bakunin)_

**CHARACTERS:** _Martin Keamy, Mikhail Bakunin_

**UNIVERSE:** _LAXverse_

**RATING:** _NC17_

**SPOILERS:** _LOST 6.06 and LOST 6.11_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _The culmination of overthinking two characters and a love for the LAXverse._

* * *

When they fight, they _fight_. No prissy, petty, snide comments—just punches, kicks, spitting, and attempted strangulation. It's always over some bullshit thing, something that normal people don't fight over in the first place, like Keamy wanting dibs on something Mikhail confiscated, like Mikhail preferring silence when Keamy wants to talk. And their arguments are never truly 'won', merely resolved when one of them can't stand any longer. It's a wonder that they haven't killed one another yet, but it's mostly because they want to make up afterwards, which, of course, is just as ugly and violent as they fight. Mikhail always pushes Keamy against the wall, taking him from behind and Keamy always wants him on his hands and knees—Mikhail still has the scars on his knees from the rugburn he received on the runner in front of the coffee table in the living room.

Mikhail sometimes wonders if Keamy doesn't understand foreplay and that fighting is the only way he can get physically close to someone comfortably, but then he realises that he's over analysing someone who he'll never truly know.

* * *

Las Vegas is a hot, godless place and Mikhail means that quite literally. For all the churches and chapels in this city, no one here seems to have religion past the bright lights, the cathedrals built to house slot machines and card tables. Their nuns dance against poles wearing g-strings and their clergymen shoot up in the alleyways. Their prayers are bought with the begged, borrowed, and stolen money of the tourists, colourful sacraments called poker chips. Mikhail is here on business, to collect money from one man and to collect the life of another; he doesn't like being in this town at all but he thinks it's somewhat poetic about the fact Keamy grew up here—a soulless town for a soulless man.

He didn't tell Martin he was coming here because he knows that he'd want to tag along, try to 'show him the city'; regardless, the weekend would end in more dead bodies than necessary. Mikhail does his job and as he drives out of the oasis, he pulls to the side of the road and taking an empty water bottle, he collects some of the sand inside of it. When he reaches LA, it's evening and Keamy is sitting at the kitchen table, muttering to himself as he cleans blood off a few stacks of hundreds with cotton balls and hydrogen peroxide. Mikhail sets the bottle on the table in front of Keamy; he isn't sure if it's a secret taunt or silent gesture giving him the bottle, but he supposes it doesn't really matter.

"Sand," Keamy declares, shaking it up.

Mikhail makes an agreeing noise, going over to the dish rack by the sink to grab a clean mug for the sweet but cold and somewhat stale coffee still left in the pot. It gets reheated in the microwave and he uses a spoon left on the counter to stir in the cream.

"So?" Keamy asks.

"So what?" Mikhail replies, barely registering that he's picked up the childish retort Keamy so often uses.

"Have fun?"

The first sip of the coffee nearly scalds his tongue, giving him enough time to hide an emotion that might betray where he's been for the past two days. "Work is work."

Keamy looks slightly disappointed and Mikhail begins to wonder if he knew all along that he'd been in Las Vegas and now won't admit to it. "Just a quick job then?"

"A quick job," he agrees, blowing on the coffee before trying to drink it again.

Keamy looks at the sand, shakes the bottle again to disturb the fine dust among the gravel and smiles, returning to his work of cleaning his money.

* * *

On one occasion did they get too comfortable in front of the hireds.

Keamy is at the stove working on a curry recipe while Mikhail reads a newspaper. They along with Keamy's hired help are waiting for one of Keamy's "associates" to be brought over for various vague threats; the man is Portuguese and Keamy wants Mikhail to translate for him, which is fine by him—his day was fairly empty in the first place. Perhaps he'd get the opportunity to work the man over a bit. Keamy's henchmen are cleaning their guns, three of them playing cards while they sit and wait.

The scent of curry fills the kitchen space and though he is focused on the article regarding the rising crime in Los Angeles, he registers the sound of the stove being turned off and footsteps approaching him.

"Taste," Keamy orders and Mikhail opens his mouth as he continues reading the paper.

Keamy feeds him the forkful of spinach and paneer and Mikhail chews, nodding his approval of the recipe, but Keamy goes back to the stove, muttering to himself and Mikhail fights back a smirk; Keamy has a terrible habit of fixating of simple, stupid things that don't really matter and obviously the curry isn't up to his own high standards.

It takes Mikhail at least a full minute to realise the room has become too quiet and he looks up from newspaper to see the other men in the room staring at him and Keamy. His first instinct is to flee the kitchen as fast as he can, but he stays because firstly, leaving would be admitting that he'd done something wrong and second, he didn't want to leave Keamy on his own. So he eyes every single one of the henchmen silently before returning his attention to his paper.

This puts him in a somewhat uneasy position around Omar. He can tell Keamy's right hand man is suspicious of him, conflicted of the relationship he has with his boss. Mikhail can see he's asking himself if it came down to it, would Keamy pick him or Mikhail. Mikhail himself doesn't have an answer for this, but he decides that there are more important things to worry about.


End file.
